Cope
by junglemag
Summary: A little Sara stream of consciousness


**A/N:** This is my fanfic for the Geekfiction Summer Ficathon. It was betaed by the lovely CSIdleGSR. All mistakes involved are mine, all mine.

**Disclaimer:** All characters herein are property of Zuiker, Bruckheimer, CBS, etc. I own nothing.

**Spoilers:** Up to and including 7x24, Living Doll

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Lots of kids carry around stuffed animals, or blankets, but I've always been one to buck the system. My mother started reading to me probably in utero. She never made it to college, getting pregnant with my brother in high school. It's funny how much one decision can change the rest of your life. 

I remember tales from Dickens, Alcott, and Hemingway, however my favorite times were when she broke out the ancient book of rhymes by Emily Dickinson. Mom had a way of sounding off the poems to mimic songs, the words becoming lyrics. I quickly found myself singing along with her. I guess I never realized how much I used it as a coping mechanism. As soon as I heard the door slam, it was on. I repeated verse after verse in my head to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," or "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I'm not sure now if it was more to drown out my mother's screams, or my father's curses, or if it were some scaled down version of biofeedback.

Needless to say, I got to know ol' Emily pretty well. If we ended up in the hospital, I'd repeat a cheery verse, like one from "She Sweeps With Many Colored Brooms." That way, if one of the nurses prodded too much, I could smile back, instead of sobbing. When I heard my brother crying, I'd chant the words to "The Mystery of Pain."

I'll never forget the night it happened. The smell. The thing I remember the most is the smell. Like iron, iodine, dirt, and salt all mixed together. The sort of smell that you can't quite put your finger on, and then it hits you right in the face. Blood. Lots of it. He was lying on the floor; face down, a pool of it surrounding him. I remember it felt tacky, as my big toe hit it when I ran to my mother. She was shaking, cold, and covered in blood. I thought for a minute it was hers, but there was no way she'd even be sitting there if it were hers, no, she'd be lying beside him. Then she grabbed me, held me close, till my nose was being penetrated by the iron, the iodine, the dirt, the salt. All I could think of then was, "There's Been a Death in the Opposite House." How fucking fitting.

Sean and I got sent away, him to a group home, me to foster parents who smiled too much. I remember the woman wrapping her giant arms around me, suffocating me in smells of cats, carpet cleaner, and dryer sheets. The poems were back; this time it was "Did the Harebell Loose Her Girdle." This always made me giggle, thinking about my foster mother withering out of giant spandex underpants. Whenever she'd walk by, I'd chant it. It's amazing the things that keep you sane.

I probably sound like a complete tool, but I never really missed either of my parents. It's not like I had this overwhelming urge to berate my mother for killing my father, taking away what little childhood I had. I certainly didn't miss that bastard, not one bit. Didn't miss the slaps, punches, curses, stares, anything. I was glad he was dead, and if it took Mom stabbing him thirteen times, so be it. I've always been an introvert; I think Mom sensed that, that's why she read to me, to open me up to all the things in my sub-conscious. Maybe that's why I identified so much with Emily. Hell, at least I didn't whole myself up in my attic for twenty years. Kudos to me.

School was always the one thing I could count on; the stable, unwavering constant in my tumultuous life. High school was a breeze; I graduated at sixteen, became emancipated, and hit the road to Harvard. I decided to major in physics, I suppose, because it too is a constant. There are laws and they don't change. No worries about doing or saying the wrong thing. I kept to myself for the most part, going out with the occasional teaching assistant. I was particularly stuck on one guy, Chris. He was tall and slender, with long hands and fingers. Whenever I saw him I'd repeat "A Narrow Fellow in the Grass," mainly to keep from blushing too much when he'd smile at me. Chris and I dated during my junior year and mid-way through my senior year we were fairly serious; or so I thought. It really sucks when you find out your boyfriend's cheating on you from the barrista at the coffeehouse.

That's when I decided to head back to the west coast. I'd had been accepted at UC Berkeley and was working on my master's in theoretical physics when my advisor informed me that I needed an elective in the biological sciences. Enter the lovely enigma that is Gil Grissom. I'd decided out of all the courses being offered in the biology department, I knew the least about insects. My advisor informed me that there would be a visiting professor that actually worked in the field of forensic entomology, and his enthusiasm seemed to flood into me. I was actually excited to look at bugs crawling on dead people? Geesh, what a geek.

So, first day of class comes and I make my way to the middle of the large lecture hall. In walks a slightly frumpy man; dark, curly hair, briefcase. He pulls out a dry erase marker and writes a quote, "Several of nature's people I know, and they know me;"

"Can anyone finish this line?" he asks, back still turned to us.

"Easy, 'I feel for them a transport of cordiality.'" I replied.

Cue gaping stares from classmates. I felt like disappearing, slinking down into my chair. Professor Grissom turns around and smiles at me, beams at me. And for the first time in my life, I believed in love at first sight. I grinned back, trying, probably unsuccessfully, to hide the embarrassment/giddiness on my face.

Our friendship started easily from that point. It felt like we'd known each other all our lives. We'd go over class notes, share the occasional coffee, and talk about life in general. He seemed to be fascinated by me, like he'd only had total morons for students all this time, and I was equally enthralled with him. When our time together ended, I drove him to the airport, we exchanged emails, and Emily was back. This time, the voice repeated, "Heart, We Will Forget Him!" I just wished my heart would have listened.

I'd been working in San Francisco's crime lab for about three years when he called me, asking for a favor. Me, being the silly, naïve girl that I was, sub-leased my apartment and was on the first plane to Vegas. The first few months were great. It was like we were back in synch again. Subtle glances here, light touches there, and I was falling deeper and deeper in love with him. However, Grissom is by all accounts an odd duck. He'd bring me closer only to push me away. It got to the point where when we'd pass in the hallway, I'd repeat "A Wounded Dear Leaps Highest" in order to keep from crying. Then came Nicky's capture.

A few weeks before Nick was kidnapped, a psychopath had basically held me hostage while Grissom watched. Having fear leave your body and enter someone else's at the same moment is a surreal experience. Adam Trent held that shard to my neck, but by the look in Grissom's eyes, he might as well have puncturing Grissom's jugular. I felt a strange sense of calm just watching him. It was like watching a scary movie with someone who's only seen Disney films his whole life. The shock, the horror, it was so real, so genuine. When they finally opened the door, all I could think about was wrapping my arms around him and feeling his lips against my skin.

The whole ordeal with Nicky took the life out of all of us. I'd never been so physically and emotionally drained in all my life. I was raw. Grissom invited me to breakfast, and I invited him into my bed. Having a relationship with your direct supervisor is quite a touchy situation. Even though there are no rules disallowing fraternization, it's not exactly accepted with open arms. It was kind of fun keeping it secret though; stealing glances, small touches, innuendoes, all the while maintaining a "healthy work relationship." The greatest thing about it was we worked with people who are trained to spot these sort of things, and they had no clue. Well, I guess they do now.

Things tend to come out in the open when you're kidnapped and trapped underneath a car. I'm slightly fuzzy trying to remember what happened. All I know now is that I'm lying here, smelling those same smells again. Dirt, iron, iodine, salt. I realize that it must be my blood, obviously not Dad's. Memories are flooding back, and I'm repeating Emily again. This time it's "Hope is the Thing with Feathers." I hope my life's not coming full circle. I hope that I don't end this way. I want to be able to hold his hand, feel the rough pads of his fingers making circles on my skin. I need to smell him, kiss him, hug him, bear his children. Did I just think that? God, Sara, calm the fuck down.

How long have I been under this damn thing? I'm sore and aching, not aching like you've laid in bed too long, aching like your life is slowly but surely draining out of you. How did that girl know my name? What the hell did I do to her? It's not everyday someone comes up to you in your parking lot and tasers you. I doubt that's where the blood's coming from though. I think I might have a stab wound in my side. That might explain the blood pool. There's a line in "Hope is the Thing with Feathers" that I'm trying to remember but my head's starting to hurt. It feels like molasses is surrounding my brain, my thoughts are becoming thicker, heavier. My vision's becoming cloudy, my breathing's slowing. What's that stupid line? And sings…and sings the… Oh well, he'll remember the line; I just hope he finds me in time for me to ask.


End file.
